Chasing Shadows
by Robin Mask
Summary: It should have been the end. Atem was gone, Zorc was destroyed, and Marik was finally beginning to make peace with his past. If only the shadows of his past didn't linger . . . he had no idea why Bakura had returned, or even how, but he would make it his duty to find out. It should have been the end, but it was only the beginning . . . Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Dedicated to LadySunami in response to her request, and also dedicated to Little Kuriboh (who admittedly is the reason I got hooked onto this pairing).

I'm also going by a _slightly _different interpretation concerning the Ryo/Bakura/Thief King/Zorc relationship, nothing major, but – as it seems there's no established canon explanation – I shouldn't be contradicting anything in the canon itself. If you enjoy this then please read 'Light in the Darkness' if you have time.

**Chasing Shadows  
****  
****Chapter One**

"Bakura?"

It just wasn't possible . . . there was no way . . .

Marik blinked in confusion as he stared at the sight before him. He would never admit it – it took all his strength not to _show _it – but the sight of the white-haired boy had him feeling _very _disconcerted and afraid. It went against nature, it went against every thing they had seen and experienced, and it went against the gods themselves . . . the spirit of the ring should have been sealed away, Ryou should have landed in Japan days ago, and so this boy before him couldn't be real. He just _couldn't _be there!

His hand instinctively went to the waistband of his jeans, his long fingers clutching thin air as he realised his Millennium Item was no longer there . . . the embarrassing part was that he grabbed several more times before the realisation truly kicked in. It was then that he truly began to feel a cold sense of dread wash over him. It was something so chilling and real that it was just like being doused with ice water, it seeped into his very core and overwhelmed him with a drowning sense of fear and horror, a feeling he had so rarely ever felt. He had never feared Bakura before, but – then again – Bakura had never really done the impossible before . . . or been lying down on his sofa in his private apartment before . . . how had he even broken in?

Crap.

It was as if he had come back to life . . . he _had _come back to life . . . not in the typical 'Shadow Game' kind of way either. Marik had seen his friends off at the airport, he had watched the aeroplane disappear into the sky, he had been there when the tomb had collapsed and the items vanished . . . if this was a trick then he wasn't going to fall for it! He was better than that! He would stay strong and brave, he would kick Bakura's ass if he had to! He wouldn't let Bakura freak him out.

"Didn't you die or something?"

Marik folded his arms across his chest and glared at Bakura. The man just laughed loudly at the blond who still stood firmly in the doorway, and as he laughed Marik felt his anger and fear collide and merge as one, blending together into an indescribable feeling that he could only describe as 'hatred'. He did _not _like being laughed at. It was so patronising and disrespectful! He had spent his whole life being laughed at, being tormented and talked down to, and he wasn't going to take that kind of attitude off someone like Bakura! He huffed loudly and pouted.

"Did I say something funny? I don't remember making a joke."

"Of course you don't, Marik," Bakura countered, "because you _are_ the joke."

Marik glared harshly at the spirit across the room. He wanted to hurt him so badly, but he knew that he had to keep his temper in check if he ever wanted to fully control his darker side, because the very last thing he needed was to trigger his split personality back into existence. It wouldn't do to lose his mind right when he needed to keep his senses the most. Bakura would surely take advantage of any temporary insanity.

He kicked his apartment door closed so harshly that the bang echoed cruelly about the room, hurting his ears and causing one of his neighbours below to bang on their ceiling with a broom, leaving him with angry yells below. He tried to cast an inconspicuous glance behind him to check if Bakura had damaged the lock by breaking in, but it seemed to be perfectly fine. Seriously, how _had _Bakura broken in? His apartment was on the third freaking floor and the door looked fine! That wasn't even to mention the security alarms, the fact his neighbours watched him like a hawk, or that Odion had been in his apartment right up until lunchtime.

"Oh, you're one to talk!" Marik snapped, throwing his bag and keys onto the kitchen counter beside him. "What are you doing here, anyway? This apartment is barely big enough for one person; I don't even have room to _think_ with you lying there on _my _couch! Get out, Bakura!"

"You don't even have room to think? I find that hard to believe. There's enough room in your skull for at least _two _unique thoughts, even if a ghost has to put one idea in your head and your alter ego the other . . ."

"Why are you here?"

He stood with arms folded childishly across his chest. His gold bracelets had warmed considerably against his flesh and in the harsh sunlight, they felt far too warm against his skin, and yet – luckily – they weren't warmed enough to burn him. They were uncomfortable, his skin was slightly sticky and sweaty beneath them, and yet somehow they felt rather protective. Odion could never understand it. Marik always hated being constrained, but for some reason the constrictive jewellery made him feel safe . . . unfortunately the lack of the Rod made him feel somewhat the opposite . . .

"If you want the Rod, Bakura, then I don't have it!"

Marik stepped out of the small area designated as a hall-cum-kitchen area, stepping into the lounge-cum-bedroom instead. The room only had room for the sofa – that doubled as a bed at night – and a large bookcase full of old books in Egyptian, a small black-and-white television sat in a corner by the small balcony, and a pile of clothes and jewellery sat by the bathroom door. It wasn't much . . . but it was his.

They had lost every thing of worth when the tomb collapsed, and – although Marik had saved money in his time as a criminal – money was always an issue . . . his sister insisted that he pay for therapy, he also had to pay for schooling and cost of living, and he also decided to pay to charities and his victims out of a sense of duty and a need to make recompense. Hehad paid for his own apartment, too, it was something he had earned – in a way – and something to call his own, and here was Bakura . . . invading his space . . . violating his privacy and breaking what little trust lay between them. Bakura had no right to be in his home. The frightening thought wasn't even the question of why Bakura was in his home; it was that the thief could break in without any effort and that Marik was unable to stop it . . .

How was it that his heart sped up so quickly? He shouldn't be afraid of Bakura, he had virtually controlled and manipulated him for the entirety of Seto's competition, he had even beaten Bakura in a duel and managed to be rid of him for good – or, at least, his alter ego had managed that – and so what reason had he to be scared? He hated the way he could hear his heart race, and the way his body felt hot and tense, and – most of all – he hated that he felt as if he had lost control . . .

"I don't want the Millennium Items," Bakura said casually.

If Bakura thought Marik was going to buy that he was sadly mistaken! He didn't care how honest the white-haired man sounded, he knew well enough that Bakura was an excellent actor, there were plenty of times when even _Marik _struggled to keep up with whom was in control of that pale body. Oh, and speaking of bodies . . . where was Ryou? Ryou was supposed to be in control again; surely Bakura hadn't stolen that freedom from him already? Marik was starting to feel bad for the poor kid.

"Then what do you want?"

"Does it matter?"

"Does it matter if I call Yugi?" Sarcasm was thick in his voice, until the immaturity and anger seeped back in. "Because I will! If you don't tell me why you're here then I'll call Yugi and make him duel you and he'll stop you and then you'll be sorry!"

The thief laughed again and flicked the television off with the remote. Marik hadn't even realised that the television had been on, the sound had been so low that there was surely no way that the thief could hear it, but it didn't matter. It was about control. Bakura was simply saying 'I have the power'. He had broken into Marik's home, circumvented the gods will, and now even exerted his control by holding the remote itself, proving that nothing – no matter how trivial or large – was beyond his power.

Okay, so maybe Marik had it coming . . . after everything he had done to Bakura then maybe the thief had the right to want revenge, or at least to take away the very last shred of control that Marik now had, which didn't amount to very much. Marik had done so much on his own, without the aid of the items, he wasn't weak by any stretch of the imagination, but he felt so vulnerable and so naked, he was standing in his own living room whilst Bakura lounged back on the sofa, _as if he owned it_! He was lying there with his hand on the remote resting on his chest, his other hand behind his head as he lay facing the balcony . . . he hadn't even the respect to face Marik! He had his back to him! This wasn't right at all!

"Call Yugi then!" Bakura countered. "Do you have any idea how long it takes to fly to Egypt from Japan? You must have made that trip at least twice, surely you haven't forgotten over twenty-four hours and two transfers in a hurry? By the time Yugi gets here I could be virtually anywhere in the world, and as for _you_ . . . you don't even know what it is I want from you yet. Who knows what would happen to you?"

The white-haired man had a point, and – frankly – Marik wasn't exactly tempted to get into a fist-fight any time soon; he might have been taller than Bakura but that bastard knew how to fight dirty and had plenty of experience in physical confrontations. It wasn't that Marik thought he would lose, but – at the very least – it would surely end bloody between them . . .

"I'll call Odion!"

"Your brother? He's loyal, I'll grant you that, but he was useless before, what exactly do you expect him to do now? Your sister is useless without the Necklace and your brother isn't even worth mentioning. Frankly I find it pathetic that you're relying on others to fight your battles, but that's nothing new now, is it?"

"Damn it, Bakura!" Marik shouted, reaching down to snatch the remote from the spirit. "You shouldn't even _be _here! Why aren't you dead? You should have died when Zorc did! This – this isn't normal!"

"Not pleased to see me, I take it?"

Bakura rolled over onto his stomach to look at Marik.

The blond boy found himself blushing again and he jerked backwards a little out of instinct, trying to put some distance – no matter how small – between him and Bakura. He hated the way the other man looked at him. His brown-eyes were half-narrowed and looked rather dangerous, the same expression they usually held, and it was impossible to tell what lay behind those eyes . . . Bakura could have been filled with love or hate, lust or disgust, and Marik would never have truly known.

It wasn't that he was _displeased _to see Bakura, but the very mechanics of their relationship had changed completely now! Marik had been in charge before. He had been the one to tell Bakura his plans, the one to call the shots, the one to say what would happen and when and where . . . now he was just a normal high-school student living his life, whereas Bakura was the one with the power to break into his apartment and dictate the situation. He hated that suddenly someone else had the power! It sent shivers down his spine, reminding him kind of the power his father used to have over him, making him fear for his life and his well-being. Bakura knew about Marik's issues, and the bastard was using it against him! He was _playing _with Marik!

He wanted to wipe that smirk off Bakura's face. How could he smirk like that in this kind of heat anyway? It hadn't hit below thirty degrees all day and Bakura was wearing his damned leather coat – actual leather! – as if the heat of the country didn't affect him in the slightest, and it wasn't as if he even had the air-con on either. He wanted to ask Bakura how he stayed so cool, but that would be far too casual, and he certainly wasn't in the mood for small talk.

"Well," Marik said, pouting as he stepped forward and kicked the sofa half-heartedly, "I guess I did miss you a little. I hate you so much, but you were probably the only friend I ever had, and – well – we had moments when I didn't _completely _hate you."

"In Japanese we call that 'friendship'."

"Shut up! I asked you a question, Bakura! Why aren't you dead?"

"Why aren't I dead?"

Bakura rolled back onto his back and grunted loudly. It seemed he had returned to ignoring Marik and was now staring at the empty screen of the television in the corner of the room, his pale skin actually shone like porcelain in the harsh light that shone through the balcony doors. In a weird way he seemed to be genuinely considering his answer, almost as if he didn't know himself how he had survived . . .

"Zorc and I were never one, Marik," he eventually said in lieu of a real answer. "He was a demon and I was a human thief, there is no reason that should he die it would mean that I would die. You also surround yourself by fools if they thought they could seal me away so easily. How many times have I split my soul into fractions? If you want the truth then I'll tell you this: only a part of me was _originally_ sealed, the other part ended up the same way as your sister and Kaiba . . ."

"You can't be serious!"

"Quick to catch on for once, aren't you? It's true. So long as this body survives, and so long as _Ryou_ remains alive, then I also remain fit as a fiddle and ready to come back whenever I so choose to. Ryou may have gotten on that initial plane, but I wasn't so ready to leave. I came back. I guess you could say that I stole away from Yugi and his friends and came back here . . . I am a thief, am I not?"

Bakura yawned and sat upright, stretching as he did so. He cricked his neck and cast a dark and dangerous glance over to Marik, making the other boy pout yet again as he purposely turned his head to one side. He would not look at Bakura! If the other man couldn't even give him a serious explanation then he had no reason to show him any respect in return, although it wasn't as if he could afford to stay angry at him forever, because without Bakura he was rather admittedly short on friends and acquaintances.

"But – but Ryou isn't like you . . ."

"So?" Bakura countered.

"Well . . ."

Marik was starting to feel flustered and confused. His eyes crossed slightly and his lips moved as if trying to work out a puzzle in his head, and in the end he frowned and stamped his foot, crossing his arms and folding in on himself as he pouted like a child. He couldn't help but feel annoyed. The whole situational was nonsensical! How could Ryou and Bakura be one and the same?

"It's stupid!" Marik snapped. "At least I was a _little _like my dark side, but you – . . ."

"Hey, you aren't the only one who suffered through a trauma. Who's to say that watching the blood flow in Kul Elna didn't send me into a descending spiral of madness? Maybe I'm just the product of some Dissociative Identity Disorder, too? You don't have a monopoly on madness, Marik."

"Be serious!"

"I'm always serious."

"You're not serious! You're smiling!"

"Serious people can't smile?"

Marik could feel himself starting to shake. His head was starting to hurt, but not the usual kind of stress-induced headaches that most people tended to get, it was kind of the sharp and intense pain associated with migraines . . . he couldn't let himself get worked up just because Bakura wanted to wind him up! He drew in a deep breath and tried to control his breathing, because if he could calm down then he could take control of the situation and put his feelings to rest.

He tried to still his racing heart and concentrate on the more positive things in his life. He had _friends _now, real friends. He had Yugi and Téa and Honda . . . he had his brother and his sister . . . he had memories of duels and warm-hearted conversation . . . he had a life now! He was free of his father, free of his old duties, and free of his own angry emotions that weighed him down and turned him into someone else. He knew – in a very strange way – that he could trust Bakura, but Bakura was also a bad influence that could easily drag him down back into villainy and criminal behaviour, and the other man couldn't even talk to him without condescension! It wasn't fair!

Why was it that the only times Bakura ever seemed to talk to him were when he was either shouting abuse or when he was mocking him like an idiot? Even now he was smirking as he spoke, which made Marik doubt the sincerity of his words, and – even if he were telling the truth – he couldn't help but feel that the spirit was somehow making fun of him, laughing at him behind that smiling façade.

Marik wondered what Yugi would say if he told him that Bakura were still lurking around. He would probably feel helpless without Atem, but what if he only felt worse? Yugi might start believing that Atem had never truly left, or maybe he would only feel sorrowful and hurt by the fact that Bakura was still around when his own spirit wasn't, or maybe – worst of all – he would resent Marik for it. How could he not hate Marik when Marik had been responsible for so much?

"You're not like me, Bakura," Marik said sadly. "I never chose this."

"So? Perhaps I chose to split my soul into pieces, it kept me alive, didn't it?"

"It kept you trapped in a ring whilst a demon millennia old soul-raped you for its own needs," Marik spat bitterly. "What have you done to Ryou in your quest for revenge? Where is he in all of this?"

"Does it matter?" Bakura's soft smile turned into an outright glare. "He's technically a part of me, the other half of my soul separated over time and distance, if I choose to lock him in a soul-room and hurt him, torture him, or rape him then it's no concern of yours. You can't really call it abuse; it's more self-harm than anything. Why do you care, anyway? Your dark side tried to kill you, me, my light, and everyone else in the process . . ."

"Go to hell, Bakura!"

Marik only then realised that he was still holding the remote control in his hands. He looked at it and then looked at Bakura . . . did the white-haired spirit ever feel any empathy or remorse? He didn't care that he was ridiculing Marik when he had been at his worst mentally, and he didn't even care about the emotional trauma he was inflicting upon Ryou, even if Ryou was technically a part of him. That was the other thing, too! He didn't even care what he did to _himself_! Didn't Bakura care about anyone? Why was he even here? He had no right to be here!

The blond frowned and threw the remote straight at Bakura. He used all of his might to do so, hoping that his aim was true as he aimed for his head, but no sooner had the remote left his hands did Bakura catch it in one and grin back at him with a rather murderous and amused expression. Marik shuddered. Had he looked that psychotic every time his dark side took over? Was he that sadistic? It made him afraid to think that there was a shadow that dark inside of himself and one more opposite him . . .

"You're the worst friend I've ever had!"

"How would you know? I'm the only friend you've ever had."

That was certainly true. Marik didn't want to admit it, but Bakura had been a pretty good friend – no one _else _had fought by his side to save his life – and Bakura had faith in him when no one else did. Sure, he had his siblings, but it just wasn't the same as having someone who wasn't related to him caring for him, because Bakura didn't have a _duty _to care for him, he just . . . _cared_. Sure a lot of it had been self-serving, but so much had also been – for better or worse – rather selfless. It still didn't explain why Bakura was sitting in his damned apartment though!

"Fine!" Marik snapped. "You're alive, that's great! I still don't get why you're here in _my _apartment! You've got your revenge on Atem, the world knows the truth, and you can go anywhere you want! Why _here_?"

"Where else was I going to go, seriously?"

"If you and Ryou are one person then Ryou's friends are your friends, too."

Bakura stood upwards and glared hard at Marik. The other boy returned his stare just as hard and folded his arms, refusing to back down, each one stood simply looking at the other as they tried to analyse the boy standing before, as if sizing up an opponent. It reminded Marik of the first time they had met. He had been pretty pissed off then, too. He remembered how much of a nuisance Bakura had been, and yet how curious and intrigued he was by what was – admittedly – a very attractive boy unlike any other he had ever seen.

Marik let out a loud huff of indignation and tried his best to ignore his conflicting feelings for his companion, caught between wanting to punch Bakura and wanting to express his gratitude for his return. If he could just think of the right words to get the bloody kleptomaniac out of his home then everything would be perfect . . .

"Sod Ryou's friends," Bakura snapped. "I'm not like you. You might want to merge with that dark-sided freak, but there's no way I want to merge with Ryou . . . if I woke up to discover that Ryou's friends were my friends I'd die of shame."

"Technically _I'm _one of Ryou's friends, you idiot."

The laughter that escaped Bakura's throat was so patronising that Marik was really starting to feel the urge to slap him. It was as if he had told the funniest joke in the world. Bakura's laughter was deep and throaty, it echoed about the room like an almost maniacal sound issued forth by a stereotyped villain, and it was as grating as it was – sort of – endearing. There was something about Bakura's accent and voice that always made Marik feel safe and somewhat intrigued, almost as if he had to hear more, and he hated that feeling. He hated both liking and hating Bakura's sounds all at once. It confused him . . .

"Like I said," Bakura said with a cruel smile, "I'd die of shame."

"Screw you, Bakura! I'm nothing to be ashamed of!"

"Actually, there is a reason to be ashamed of you . . ."

Marik clenched his fists tightly and tried to fight the urge to hurt Bakura. He had to fight the urge, because the urge stemmed from his pain and hurt, pain at the betrayal of his first true friend. He was used to people saying cruel things to him, but from Bakura it stung more than any other insult he had ever been dealt. It was sharp and penetrating. It was consuming and humiliating . . .

He could feel his head aching and groaning with the pressure of his alter ego, the other self dangerously close to pressing through and assuming control, and all because he didn't want to deal with the emotional pain of rejection. He would fight his other half though. He couldn't give up his control, because it was very much all he had in this life, and – through therapy – he had begun to recognise the triggers that brought forth his dark side and he now knew how to help in repressing him. He still hadn't the strength to address his past traumas, he wondered if he ever would, but with Bakura here – forcing him to relive feelings of inadequacy and weakness – he felt the battle of control sharpening within him. He felt frightened.

He drew in a deep breath and then snapped his head to one side and folded his arms. He refused to show any hurt before the sadistic spirit before him, refused to show any pain, and why should he show any pain? He was Marik Ishtar! He was an excellent duellist, he had people who adored every thing about him, and he was strong enough to have been able to control anyone and everyone! He didn't need Bakura or his approval or his acceptance! What did he care?

Marik turned around and stormed away towards the kitchen area, grabbing his keys from the counter where he had thrown them, determined to leave the apartment and leave Bakura behind. He knew that the thief wasn't exactly one to take a hint or – more accurately – care enough to do what was expected of him, but with some luck he might be gone by the time Marik returned. Odion wouldn't turn his back on Marik. He could crash at his brother's and whine and bitch about his old friend, then return home and never see Bakura again! He didn't need Bakura anyway! He hadn't needed him to begin with! He could duel well without him, and he could certainly live his life well enough without him. He wasn't about to let Bakura hurt him _or _win for that matter! He'd show that thief . . . he'd show him . . . he didn't need him . . .

Marik had barely had time to grab a hold of his keys when Bakura grabbed a hold of _him_. His pale hand wrapped around Marik's wrist and held tight, he was surprisingly strong considering that he was both shorter than the Egyptian and looked positively anorexic. It was somewhat jarring and frightening to be held so abruptly, especially when Bakura had been so cruel, but he hadn't a chance to argue back.

No sooner had he opened his mouth to speak did Bakura silence him.

The thief threw Marik hard against the wall and pressed his lips to his. It was Marik's first kiss. His mind reeled with shock and he couldn't even find enough sense or reason to fight it, he couldn't even believe that it was happening, it was just so sudden! He had always expected his first kiss to be profound and spiritual, something he would remember forever . . . instead he could only think how surprisingly soft Bakura's lips were, and he couldn't help but wonder how the other boy tasted like alcohol. Bakura was underage and alcohol wasn't easy to purchase in Egypt at the best of times and yet - . . .

"B-Bakura!"

Marik pushed the thief away hard. It was hard to ignore the way his lips still felt moist as the other boy tried to push his tongue inside his mouth, or the way his trousers suddenly felt a little too tight, but he also couldn't ignore how much of a jerk Bakura had been to him! He wasn't going to share something so personal and important with some thief who couldn't care less about him! Bakura was probably just looking for someone to manipulate, someone to help him find the items.

"You can't kiss me!"

"Why not?" Bakura said with his brown eyes filled with an emotion that Marik couldn't quite place. "We both know that you're gay. If you're worried about this country's prejudice or your siblings' reaction then we don't have to tell anyone."

"That's not the point! I'm not going to kiss someone who's ashamed of me!"

Bakura rolled his eyes and then placed both of his hands on either side of Marik's head, causing the blond to suddenly feel claustrophobic and trapped. He hated the way that his heart suddenly beat hard against his chest. How was it that the sight of the thief inches from his face, effectively pinning him against the wall, could be so rather arousing? He hated the feeling of helplessness, but at the same time it felt kind of good to be able to give some of his power away and still feel safe doing so. He knew – without knowing how – that Bakura wouldn't hurt him. He had never been able to relinquish control before . . . not without being hurt in return.

"I said I had a reason to be ashamed of you," Bakura said in his rather low and dangerous voice, "not that I _was_ ashamed of you. There is a difference, Marik, a very big difference. If you would simply hear me out, that is . . ."

"Why should I?"

"Because, Marik, I . . . _may . . . _like you."

"Wait, you 'may' like me? You just kissed me! How can you kiss me and not know if you like me or not! You're only supposed to kiss people that you love! You – you don't love me . . . _do_ you?"

"Of course not!"

Marik pouted and crossed his arms, trying his best not to look Bakura in the face. He was rather relieved the other man didn't have feelings for him, because he could imagine how extremely difficult it would be to admit to having feelings for another man, and he _certainly _didn't want to have to admit to having feelings for Bakura! Ah, not that he _did _have feelings for Bakura, but if he did he would never admit it.

Still, it hurt that Bakura would kiss him and not mean it, or that he didn't even know how he felt about Marik. He was cruel, sarcastic, vindictive, sarcastic, he never respected anyone's privacy – wherever inserting fragments of his soul into people's private property or breaking into their apartments – and he openly associated with demons and villains. Bakura didn't care about anyone other than himself! So why was it so painful when Bakura rejected him? Why did he care that he just shared his first kiss with someone who was beneath him? What could he even say in response?

"Oh . . ." he said pathetically, "good . . ."

"I think . . ."

He couldn't have stopped the blush upon his cheeks even if he tried. Marik shoved Bakura hard and stormed his way back into the apartment, throwing himself onto the sofa so he could – at the very least – hide his face. He was half-tempted to hit his head continuously on the arm of the sofa, but he decided against pointless gestures of frustration, because the very last thing he wanted was for Bakura to know what kind of affect he had upon him.

"You _think _that you don't love me?" Marik snapped. "You _think_!"

"Well, forgive me if romance wasn't at the top of my agenda throughout the years," Bakura said, walking through the room so that he stood over Marik in mimicry of how Marik had stood earlier. "I had better things to do then send flowers and chocolates to someone that I can only mildly tolerate in return for sexual favours."

"Wait, _that's _your definition of 'love'?"

"Look, Marik," Bakura snapped, throwing his coat upon the floor, "it's too hot for conversations on such trivial topics. I don't know what I feel; frankly I don't care remotely what it is that I feel. I just know that when I woke up I had nowhere else that I wanted to be. I can tolerate you quite well, you are sexually appealing – that I cannot deny – and you intrigue me. I have this undeniable urge to steal you away."

"From you that may as well be a declaration of love, Bakura."

Marik sat upwards and crossed his legs upon the sofa; his arms folded across his chest as he hunched his back and tried his best not to make eye contact with Bakura. He felt petulant and childish, almost as if he were sulking upon the sofa, but he couldn't help but feel very awkward and confused. Even if he ignored the mixed-messages from Bakura, he still wasn't sure how to feel . . . even locked in a tomb he had the message that homosexuality was a sin drilled into his head, but his time spent in Japan had admittedly opened his mind to new ideas. He would admit that he liked the idea of being with Bakura, but was it right?

He needed time to think. He liked Bakura a lot, and Bakura – for whatever selfish and stupid reason – had liked Marik enough to get off _one_ plane and then take the very _next_ plane he could back to Egypt. He had assumedly followed Marik for days and then broke into his apartment, and he had then confessed to sort of tolerating him. It was kind of romantic. He also really liked the kiss and wanted to feel it again one day, maybe even experiencing just a little bit more . . .

"Well, you seem to be under the foolish assumption that a kiss equals love," Bakura said with a smirk, "so if you think that I love you then perhaps you would think a kiss acceptable. So what do you say? Care for another kiss?"

Bakura didn't have time to dodge the cushion that came straight at his face.

It was a pretty hard pillow and a very hard throw, and he couldn't help but feel a little bit pissed as the stinging slap of the material struck him. It wasn't exactly painful, but it was rather embarrassing and disrespectful. If he wasn't so used to Marik's antics – including his own sadism and inciting Bakura to self-harm for the sake of manipulating Yugi – then he may have taken offence.

He looked down to Marik and smirked. It seemed that the blond Egyptian was blushing intently and more than a little pissed; his kohl-marked eyes narrowed into dark slits as he pulled the cushion back and dropped it into his lap, he waited for a few seconds before he hugged it to his body, almost like a child with a comfort-item. It was adorable as it was ridiculous. Marik was both strong and powerful, and yet he appeared to often have the mind of a child. It made Bakura wonder if he had picked the right person to have interest in, the boy bugged him more than anyone else alive. It seemed that Marik felt the same way if he were to judge from the boy's infuriated expression . . .

"Screw you, Bakura."

"Maybe later, Marik," he said with a smile.

He laughed loudly as the cushion missed his head by an inch . . .

Oh, yes, he was _certainly _going to have fun with this little Egyptian!


	2. Chapter 2

**Warning: **This chapter will contain yaoi. I have recently been writing fanfiction without explicit scenes, but – as this is a request – it will have an explicit scene towards the end.

**A/N: **I am going to consider this complete for now, but I will admit that I am tempted to do a third chapter at some point. I can't say when though as I have other commitments at the moment, but I will try to make it a priority.

**Chapter Two**

There was definitely something quite odd with Bakura . . .

Marik pouted and crossed his arms over his chest. He was aware that there was a certain childishness to his actions, but he couldn't care less. He would continue to pout and slouch, he would continue to glare and growl, because Bakura had been nothing more than a millstone around his neck for the past two weeks! If it wasn't enough to be _stalked _by a _spirit_ he was now forced to play the victim of malicious practical jokes too! It wasn't fair!

Bakura currently sat looking somewhat terrified on his sofa. His eyes were bright and wide, shimmering as the sun shone brightly upon them, and Marik was almost certain he could see a layer of tears resting on their surface. He seemed unable to make eye contact, constantly staring at the floor as if afraid to look upwards, and – frankly – it was rather annoying! He knew that Bakura was confident and strong, so it was disconcerting to see him so quiet and weak. He even rested his hands on his knees, clenched into fists, and bent forward as if he might break.

The last two weeks had been eventful to say the least . . . especially when 'Ryou' had decided to show up unannounced several times to make conversation with Isis and Odion, who – in their infinite wisdom – had decided to let the foreign boy stay. Isis, of course, was suspicious. Who wouldn't be? Bakura was such a good actor though that he somehow had managed to worm his way into Marik's apartment as an innocent schoolboy, crashing on Marik's floor 'only for the summer holidays'. It shouldn't have been possible! Yes, Bakura had taken over from his host many times in the past, sometimes going through entire duels and competitions with no one knowing any better, but Marik had never thought his own _siblings _would fall for it!

"I'm not stupid, Bakura!"

The white-haired boy on the sofa visibly flinched. Marik – for a brief second – felt a surge of guilt, feeling pain at having hurt another human being, but then he realised how pathetic that was. It wasn't as though he had hurt anyone at all! He wasn't going to fall for Bakura's stupid ploys! He knew Bakura far too well to think for a second this 'innocent' act was actually his host.

"You're not the only one with a split personality!" Marik shouted. "I know the signs and symptoms, and I know _you _almost as well as I know myself! I know when you're faking it, Bakura! You know, you should try therapy . . ."

Marik thought about the idea of Bakura and Ryou merging as one. He wondered if Ryou would be wiped out in the process, the way that the dark Marik seemed to slowly be fading away . . . albeit leaving Marik with more confidence. It would be a shame to lose Ryou, but – then again – the idea of either Ryou _or _Bakura confiding their souls to a complete stranger seemed ridiculous. Marik's own traumas had stemmed from his present life at least, he dreaded to think how Bakura would explain past-lives and a grudge against a pharaoh's ghost to a person who had the power to lock him away for an indefinite period of time.

The white-boy was shivering now, his body jolting back and forth as he suddenly crossed his arms across his chest and hugged his body tight. He looked so afraid. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights, and considering just moments before he had been asking where he was it was starting to seem suspiciously like he _was _actually Ryou . . . why would Bakura let Ryou take charge though?

"W-why would I pretend to be the spirit?"

"Huh?"

Marik walked over to the sofa and placed a hand on his hip, his eyes furrowed in frustration. He waved his hand in front of the boy's face and raised an eyebrow in confusion at the response, wondering how Bakura could forcibly make himself pale or wince in such a way that it seemed so authentic. The boy actually backed away to one side and tried to edge away from Marik. It was actually quite creepy. Marik pouted and leaned away, determined not to spook the boy any further just in case it _was _Ryou.

"W-where is Yugi? I – I remember the blimp . . . and Yugi . . ."

"Blimp? What blimp?" Marik suddenly did a double take, his eyes wide in abrupt horror as he stared incredulously at Ryou. "That was ages ago! I remember that battle against Atem! You _have _to remember since then!"

"I – I don't! I don't remember anything!"

It seemed that the boy wasn't faking it after all. Bakura might have been good enough to fake tears and a shaky hand, but there was no way he could pale his skin or tremble his lip without Ryou being in control! Even actors couldn't fake blushes or paleness. The last time Bakura wanted people to believe he was in pain he had switched out for Ryou to do so, because he just wasn't that good a faker . . .

He just hoped this wasn't a permanent change, because – although he would never admit it – he rather liked Bakura . . . besides, what kind of life could Ryou hope to live now? He had missed entire chunks of his education for card games, he had amnesia for random and lengthy periods of time, and his friends felt too afraid to even speak of the past to him, never knowing if the event they reminded him of had been him or _Bakura _to have experienced it with them. They were afraid to even mention the spirit too, lest it upset Ryou. It was better that Bakura stay in charge, even if he had to fake _being _Ryou to do it . . . damn it, now _that _was a paradox to hurt Marik's mind if there ever was one!

What was he going to do with Ryou? He couldn't even go near him without him shaking and wincing, and he had no idea what Bakura had actually _done _to Ryou whilst he had been in charge. Yeah, they were two halves of one soul, but they had two independent minds, so who was to say _what _Bakura had done to Ryou when he was trapped in his soul room all that time. How far did the extent of the damage done to this half of the soul run?

"O-oh," Marik said lamely, "I guess this may be a bit of a problem . . . Ryou?"

The boy had turned his head so that only his white-locks were visible. His shoulders were shaking now, but in a strange way that Marik suspected may have been laughter as opposed to crying. It tugged at something inside Marik that made him rather suspicious, gnawing on that thread of doubt and giving him a shadow of pain that he couldn't quite comprehend. He felt cheated. He felt as though he knew what was about to happen and yet . . . he couldn't quite believe it.

"Bakura? Is that you?"

Suddenly the white-haired boy burst into laughter. He actually bent over, clutched his side, and . . . _laughed_! Marik half-hoped that Ryou was just hysterical, because he hated the idea that – even for the briefest of moments – that Bakura could have actually _tricked_ him! He could actually see that devilish smirk on those pale lips, the dark look of amusement in those brown eyes, and he hated it! It wasn't fair!

"Bakura! Damn it! That wasn't funny!"

"Yes, yes it was!"

"No, it damn well wasn't!"

Marik grabbed a cushion from the sofa and threw it straight for Bakura. It hit the white-haired spirit on the head, but it didn't do much to stop the laughter, and it was only when Marik stepped forward – jerkily and suddenly – ready to hit Bakura that Bakura actually stopped. There were still the faint remnants of laughter, but nothing akin to what it had been. Marik wasn't sure what was worse: the laughter or the sudden quietening that descended into silence . . .

Marik refused to be made a fool of! He had given up a lot of control and trust in letting Bakura stay here, in not giving the game away to people that he wasn't actually Ryou, and the spirit responded with practical jokes that were far from amusing! He wasn't going to let the kleptomaniac win so easily.

He barely gave Bakura a chance to compose himself; instead he immediately dove at the thief, glaring as he did so, muttering curses in Arabic as he landed harshly upon Bakura. He caught Bakura at an angle. The white-haired boy hadn't even time to fully turn his head and comprehend the situation before being knocked to the ground, he fell off the edge of the sofa and found himself being forced onto his back, struggling against Marik as Marik sat astride his waist. It seemed that at first Marik was set on striking him, but the more Bakura blocked the attacks the more ineffectual the attacks became, so that in the end it was nothing more than childish slapping on both sides.

"Oh, _do _lighten up," Bakura snapped.

Bakura growled loudly and flipped them over.

He pinned Marik to the ground and glared at the young Egyptian, his brown eyes boring holes into the young boy's head. He could see the fury in Marik's expression. He could feel the blond twist and turn beneath him, hear the curses screamed into his ears, and as he held onto the other's wrists – keeping them above his head – he could sense the control slowly slipping from Marik.

The blond hated the feeling. It was all encompassing. The pain in his head was sharp and intense, like a hot screwdriver being dug deeply into his skull. His control was slipping, he could feel the anger washing over him as his dark side threatened to break through, threatened to protect him and keep him safe, threatened to get back the control that they had lost . . . he thrashed about underneath Bakura, but he couldn't get loose. He knew the process well enough, soon he would scream and then he would black out from the pain and then - . . .

Bakura let go. He simply settled for sitting next to him, as opposed to on him or beside him. It was a relief that Marik couldn't quite describe, but he couldn't express that relief even if he wanted to . . . he was too busy trying to catch his breath, too busy trying to breathe again and repress his dark side.

"Must you try and fight me on something so trivial?" Bakura questioned.

"That wasn't trivial," Marik spat bitterly, struggling to pull himself up into a sitting position. "You nearly made me lose myself! Why do you have to piss me off so much? We're supposed to be on the same team!"

"It may seem juvenile _now_," he replied with an irritated smile, "but just wait until later. Every good punchline needs a good set-up; otherwise the joke is all but lost. Imagine your horror when I revert to my host, then imagine how funny his terror and your fury will be, and the angrier you get with me for 'pretending' the more terrified he will be with you!"

"Stop being such a sadist! You're just bluffing anyway!"

"Try me, Marik."

Marik huffed loudly and leant back against the sofa, crossing his arms again like a petulant child. Bakura moved and sat next to him, almost as if keeping him company, but the awkward silence between them was not that of two friends or companions. It felt uncomfortable. They _were _friends, but for some reason nothing seemed to work between them anymore. It might have been because Bakura was now pretending to be someone that he wasn't, or perhaps Marik had just matured when the thief hadn't, but whatever the case things just didn't feel right between them.

"Is it just me . . . or is this weird?" Marik asked.

"Weird how?"

"Well, we're friends, right?"

Bakura shrugged and grunted slightly.

Marik decided to interpret that as a confirmation and pursed him lips as he felt an urge to smile . . . it would have been _nice _to smile, but things were still rather awkward between them and he didn't want the spirit thinking that he was so easy to overcome. It was just that things were rather tense between them, what with their arguing and rivalry and sometimes what verged on bullying . . . it used to be that Marik thought those things synonymous with friendship, but lately it seemed that they weren't. Yugi always treated his friends with respect, with _kindness_, and he just didn't understand why Bakura couldn't do the same. Were they no longer friends? Did Bakura just not care? It was hard to understand.

The blond Egyptian sighed and leaned against Bakura, resting his head on the silver-haired boy's shoulder. He felt Bakura tense, but he soon relaxed, even adjusting his position so that Marik could rest comfortably against him and enjoy the rare moment of intimacy between them. He could probably count on one hand the amount of times they had touched without one of them being injured or in need of help, and frankly it was nice. It reminded him of times with Odion and Isis.

"I was thinking I might finish schooling back in Domino City," Marik said casually. "Isis says she could score a job at the museum easily enough, and Odion is pretty smart with languages and things . . . he had to be, because he wanted to take my place as Tomb Keeper, so he had to know those things. I think he would get a job easily."

"What has that to do with us being friends?"

"Well, I just wanted to let you know and see what you thought. Egypt will always be my home, but Japan is where my friends are and where my most treasured memories are, and I want to go back. I won't pretend it's a perfect place, but it's a nice place to be, Bakura, I mean you know . . . what with our lifestyle and all . . ."

"_Our_ lifestyle? Wait, just how the bloody hell are you defining 'friends' in this little conversation of yours?"

"I thought you wanted to sleep with me? Isn't that what you've been obsessively trying to do these past two weeks? You even told me you came back just for me! You're practically _stalking _me, plus I'm sure you technically kidnapped me a few days back, you also said you wanted to steal me away!"

"Yes, I want to sleep with you. So what? You're not supposed to sleep with _friends_!"

"So we're not friends?"

Bakura tensed considerably and clenched his hands into fists. In all the time spent away from scheming and plotting with the Egyptian he has forgotten how incredibly sheltered and naïve he could be, how he had spent his entire life in a tomb and then – when finally leaving – had hardly been introduced into the 'real' world amongst respectable adults. He was very intelligent, but as academically gifted as he was his understanding of human relationships was tenuous at best. It was infuriating to have to explain every little thing, and even more so to wonder if – or possibly when – anyone had taken advantage of this innocence . . .

The spirit found himself feeling rather awkward. It was difficult to admit to feelings of any sort, because he certainly wasn't weak and he _certainly _wasn't deluded about the 'powers of friendship', a concept that was so sickly sweet he felt nauseous about the very thought. He perhaps _enjoyed _Marik's company at times, but to admit to _both _friendship _and _sexual desire was virtually impossible.

He coughed a little in his right hand and then drew in a deep breath. He then patted Marik firmly and awkwardly on his shoulder, trying his best to comfort the blond boy without actually having to act emotional and affectionate with him. It seemed like Marik appreciated it, because no sooner had Bakura patted him – hand completely straight and fingers spread, as if _afraid _to touch him – did he begin to nuzzle into Bakura's shoulder, leaving Bakura blushing and extremely rigid. He felt almost afraid to move. Marik was effectively hugging him about the waist; his head now rested above Bakura's heart as the thief held his arms high in the air, desperately trying to make it clear that he wasn't going to hug the Egyptian back.

"Of course we're friends," Bakura said, looking away from Marik as he said this. "I was merely pointing out that simply as someone wishes to sleep with you does _not _mean that they are necessarily your friend."

"You can't want to _sleep _with someone unless you at least like them as a friend!"

"Huh, so _that's _what you meant?"

Marik looked up with a blush and gave the spirit a dark glare and a soft pout. Bakura knew that the boy would be confused, wondering how his previous words could have meant anything else, but when he had said that because Bakura had wanted him sexually that must have automatically made him a friend . . . he was merely thankful that the Egyptian was blond both in roots and in mind. He hated to admit it, but he actually felt a spark of jealousy and anger in thinking that perhaps Marik had been sexual with his other 'friends'.

"What _else _would I have meant?" Marik snapped.

"Look, the point is that _yes_ we are friends," Bakura said slowly, "and _yes _I want to sleep with you. I just meant to say that you should be careful . . . there are people who will sleep with you and not care about you at all. Believe me. I wasn't famous as the Thief King for my respect of others and their bloody bodies."

"You're confusing me! Why would you sleep with someone and _not_ respect them? Isn't love a prerequisite of sex?"

Bakura laughed so loud that Marik could feel the rolling shakes of his chest reverberate through him. It was jolting and disconcerting, worse still was that he felt as if he was being patronised or mocked for what he was sure was a universal belief. It was true that sometimes sexual activity was necessary for its own sake to continue a bloodline, but the idea that – otherwise – love and sex were one was one that Marik had carried for a long time. It was just hurtful that the spirit – who claimed to be a friend – would be so cruel as to laugh at him!

He made to move away but Bakura draped an arm over his shoulders. The gesture was enough to keep him from moving away . . . not because he was finally relinquishing control to the spirit, but because from Bakura a simple hold was extremely out of character and unusual. It shocked Marik enough that he simply appreciated being held, enjoying the fact that Bakura would hold him when he would hold no one else . . .

"Face it, Marik, you're easily confused," Bakura laughed. "This is why virgins amuse me. I have yet to meet one who isn't plagued by childish notions of romance and enduring love. It's almost as pathetic as Téa and her obsession with friendship!"

"Well I'm not going to sleep with you if you don't love me!"

"Well if you're waiting for a confession of love it'll be a long-time coming!"

"Look! You don't have to say the words . . . just say you'll come with me?"

Bakura looked down at the boy who was nuzzled against him. He couldn't quite see his expression, but he could tell that he was highly uncomfortable and most likely blushing in embarrassment. He was also clutching quite hard at Bakura's striped shirt, one hand just beneath his chest and the other on his back, and it was clear that he wasn't happy with the topic at hand. Perhaps he felt weak for letting his emotions come to the forefront, or perhaps he was finally realising just how bloody stupid he sounded and felt an appropriate level of embarrassment to match his idiocy.

"Oh _Marik_," Bakura teased, actually hugging the boy tightly close to his chest as he tried his best not to laugh and feign seriousness, "I'll _come _with you alright. I'll even come on you if you like."

"Shut up! I meant to Domino City, _you freak_!"

The thief spirit winced as Marik elbowed him hard in the stomach. It seemed that the blond boy was far stronger than his lithe frame gave him credit for, and as he doubled over he struggled to catch his breath . . . he also felt a little impressed Marik could have hit him so well at such an awkward angle. The boy then huffed loudly, turned, and leant his back against Bakura's side with his arms folded.

The ancient spirit drew in a deep breath and righted himself, looking down at the rather petulant face that now stared straight ahead at the balcony doors with a venomous expression, he was tempted to strike Marik and yet somehow found a strength inside himself to resist the urge. If he wanted to sleep with Marik – to perhaps be with him long-term – then he had to accept that physical blows were not appropriate . . . even if Marik didn't seem to have gotten _that _memo.

Marik suddenly blushed a little and turned his gaze downwards. It rather intrigued Bakura, especially when Marik was so strong and commanding, when he was capable of controlling vast crowds of people and manipulating people by the dozens. He was confident to the extent that he could reveal his body without any shame, and he was able to attack and confront a spirit millennia older than he was. It was almost amusing how he could become so childlike and shy in the face of such a mundane topic! It made Bakura look all the more forward to claiming him, to taking for himself what had yet to be taken. He was curious indeed.

"Come with me to Domino City?" Marik asked softly, still not making eye contact. "Come as Bakura . . . don't pretend to be Ryou. Just come with me back to Japan?"

"That would be proof to you that I love you?"

Marik nodded. "Yeah. I mean I know how much easier it was for you to just pretend to be Ryou, and you're still doing it now . . . if you were willing to face the music as Bakura, as _you_, then it'd be a big sacrifice. I want you in my life, but not while you are pretending to be someone that you're not! So – so will you come with me? Will you come back to Domino City?"

Bakura blanched a little at the suggestion. Marik was still leaning against him awaiting an answer, his hands in his lap as he fiddled with one of his gold bracelets, and he was actually pursing his lips too. It was oddly rather attractive, albeit rather saddening to see the boy so strong and confident reduced to such insecurity. It should have been easy to give an answer, but it wasn't . . . it wasn't easy at all.

He could have agreed to what Marik wanted for many reasons . . . it would have been fun to reveal himself and see Yugi's reaction, he could get to return to Japan without the condition that he pretend to be someone else, and he would even garner Marik's trust and that would in turn allow him access to the boy's body. He wanted to be selfish. It was _easy _to be selfish. It was just that he had a feeling . . . something very hard to name and understand . . . something that said these reasons were not enough. Marik's offer of his body in return for Bakura's honesty was tempting, but very difficult to comprehend. It was hard to trust a man sacrificing more than he was getting in return, but – if sincere – hard not to show some respect.

Bakura huffed loudly and raised his leg so as to rest his arm upon it; his other draped along the sofa cushions, half-tempted to rest on the blond Egyptian but unable to bring himself to actually do so. He drummed his fingers along his knee in thought. It wasn't as if he _cared _about Marik's feelings – that was if the boy was capable of complex human emotions – but he still felt a serious weight to the question that ought not to be taken lightly. After all, for one thing if he reneged on his word Marik could make things very difficult for him indeed . . .

"I suppose I could do that," Bakura said nonchalantly. "It could be fun to make people think Ryou is still his own person being possessed by an evil spirit . . . an evil spirit that is still prominent and present in their lives."

"Don't play cruel jokes, Bakura!"

Marik rolled over and stretched out, so that he was now resting on his elbows, then pushed himself up to be at eye-level with Bakura. The position and close proximity made the thief feel rather vulnerable and awkward, but he resisted pushing the boy away as he realised that such an aggressive gesture would not be tolerated. If he pushed Marik away now – the boy being as bloody immature and sensitive as he was – he would probably deny Bakura any chance at sexual involvement.

It seemed that Marik he had made the right choice. Marik was rather renowned for his enjoyment in taking control of any situation, in manipulating events to his own will, and – at sight of Bakura's seeming indifference – he decided to act. He placed his hands on the thief's chest and fisted the shirt in his hands, leaning into him as he pouted and tried to look as serious as possible. Bakura merely rolled his eyes and looked away as the boy leaned into his personal space. Somehow his hand came to fall on Marik's back, where he patted the boy half-heartedly as if trying to comfort him, trying to ignore how – and why – the boy seemed so uncaring of a little thing called 'personal space'.

"But you'll come?" His tone was strong and slightly demanding. "You'll come back to Japan with me? You'll stop pretending to be Ryou?"

"I just said so, didn't I? Yes, I'll come!"

"You mean it?"

Bakura sighed. "I mean it."

"Good."

Marik moved his hands across Bakura's chest and rested them upon his shoulders. His hands were warm and soft, and he seemed to clench and relax them sporadically, almost as if unsure what to do with them. He seemed to settle, in the end, for simply clenching rather tightly. It was a little painful, but judging from his pout and look of concentration he seemed to find the hold appropriate.

The thief was curious as to just what the Egyptian had in mind, but soon felt his suspicions put to rest when Marik pulled himself up and slid onto his lap, his legs resting on either side of Bakura's as he tried to make eye-contact with the silver-haired man. It would have been nice to see him show such sudden confidence, if it weren't for the sheer fact that he clearly _wasn't _confident and seemed completely oblivious as to what counted for a display of sexuality. It made Bakura feel highly morally suspect for actually being attracted to a boy who thought that merely _looking someone in the eye _was the height of sexuality.

"What are you doing, Marik?"

The blond shuffled on his lap as if trying to get comfortable. He seemed to be focused on Bakura's groin area, squirming quite awkwardly as if he _seriously _seemed to think it might be enjoyable to the thief, and all the sight proved to do was to tempt Bakura into holding back laughter. He shook his head and flipped Marik over onto his back. The blond blushed at this, especially when Bakura pinned his hands above his head.

"I'll ask you again: what was that?"

"Well . . . isn't this what you want? I thought you wanted to sleep with me." Marik fidgeted beneath Bakura and then sighed. "You basically said you love me, and I really do like you a lot, so I thought we could . . . _consummate_ our sort-of relationship. You said you wanted me, didn't you?"

"Yes, but what you were doing wasn't exactly foreplay."

"If that wasn't foreplay then what is?" Marik answered bitterly.

Bakura smiled devilishly down at the blond and then bent his head down to tease upon his neck. He used his sharp teeth to gnaw lightly upon the tanned column of flesh, biting harshly every now and again, followed by nursing the area with his tongue and sucking upon it with his lips. The mixture of pain and pleasure, of bites and kisses, seemed to really affect Marik. He instinctively rolled his hips and spread his legs, causing Bakura to feel a little uncomfortable himself.

It was something so simple, and yet pinned there – without any control – Marik arched his back and let out a long moan. Bakura decided he liked that sound and proceeded to mark his companion's neck, before pulling back and licking his lips. Marik's cheeks were flushed red. His kohl-marked eyes were half-lidded, his lips partly open and panting a little, and he truly looked quite ravishing.

"_This_ is foreplay, Marik."

Bakura moved downwards, his hands let go of Marik's wrists and trailed lightly over the tanned body. The boy writhed a little and laughed breathlessly in places as he felt tickled, but overall he stayed still as Bakura kneeled between his sprayed legs . . . Bakura rolled his eyes at how submissive Marik could be and how easily he could assume the role too. He placed little butterfly kisses along Marik's clothed body as he moved, his fingers pressing just hard enough to be felt but not to cause pain. His mouth only stopped when it reached the crotch, and instead his fingers worked under that loose shirt and worked their way upwards . . . pulling the material with it.

"N-no!" Marik said loudly, putting his hands over Bakura's to stop him from removing his shirt. "This is just you trying to undress me!"

"Yes, Marik, I am trying to undress you." Bakura forced the lavender top upwards in a harsh and quick gesture so that it covered Marik's head and forced his arms up along with it, allowing Bakura to remove the fabric in question. "I assumed your consent on the matter was implied, what with your more explicit intent to have sex with me. We can't damned well do this clothed now, can we?"

Bakura threw the garment across the room. Marik glared at him and flailed his arms for a moment, caught between instinctively trying to reach for his clothing and hiding his chest from sight, but – after catching Bakura's smirk – he settled for punching the silver-haired boy in the jaw. It was a rather hard punch, enough to bruise him, but Bakura refrained from the urge to beat him bloody . . . it would rather ruin the mood.

"Don't do anything without my permission!" Marik snapped.

The thief rolled his eyes and eyed the chest beneath him. Marik had returned his hands back to his body; his right arm draped lightly across his taut abdomen, but his left arm was raised high with his head rested upon his forearm. He looked oddly vulnerable and assertive at once, and he also looked extremely pissed off – just as much as he was clearly aroused. Bakura made a mental note not to do anything overtly sexual without noting Marik to his intentions first. It may have been fun to irritate him, but it certainly ruined the mood to be physically hit.

Marik's body was truly amazing. It was as perfect as Bakura's memory provided, wonderfully defined and evenly tanned in a natural manner all over, and – perked up from his chest – were two dark-coloured and alluring nipples. It was far too hot in Egypt for them to be so erect from the cold, and so Bakura realised – quite happily – that the boy beneath him must have_ really _been enjoying things . . .

Bakura pressed his own growing length against Marik's fully hard one and heard the boy cry out and squirm. His hands suddenly shot out and grabbed Bakura hard by the shoulders, enough so that Bakura had to wonder if – when the main event came – the Egyptian would have enough sense to take charge . . . he ignored his speculations and leant downwards. He licked a long line from just above Marik's trousers to the tip of his collarbone, then satisfied himself by sucking and licking upon his partner's left nipple, relishing in the sounds Marik made.

He suckled firmly as possible, then turned to pulling the nipple hard between his teeth, causing Marik to call out loudly – his fingers virtually cutting through the thief's clothing – as he half-coherently called out Bakura's name. Bakura switched between sucking and biting, enjoying the sounds Marik made – sounds that became more and more unintelligible, more frantic and panted – before he felt Marik press hard against him and suddenly . . . fall back . . . lifeless . . .

"Huh," Bakura observed, licking his lips at the sight of flushed cheeks and dilated pupils. "You really _are _a virgin. Look, you need to be erect for this next part . . . if I give you fifteen minutes will you be able to get it up again? I imagine so. Virgins are always so quick to please and eager to get on."

"I – I can easily . . ." Marik drew in a deep and shuddered breath. "I can change my mind at any point, so I'd shut up if I were you."

"_Feisty_."

Bakura slowly began to undo the buttons on Marik's trousers. The boy let him without any further arguments, and – taking his time still – Bakura slid down both his trousers and his undergarments. He ignored the mess around his future lover's privates, instead focussing on the impressive package before him . . . impressive even when limp and not erect. It caused Bakura to feel constrained in his arousal, a little pained and awkward, enough so that he was forced to try and adjust himself.

Marik wasn't exactly amazing in length, but he _more _than made up for it in width, something that made Bakura ache with need and desire. He could already feel his inner walls clenching in anticipation. It was slightly crooked, uncircumcised according to fashion and culture, and quite wet with his release . . . Bakura wished the refractory period could pass quicker.

"What about a show, Marik?"

"A show?"

"Hmm," Bakura said softly, pulling his own t-shirt over his head. "Have you never watched a show before? Consider this the interval to the main-act, we'll soon get to the climax, believe me."

He noticed that Marik's length gave a little twitch and smirked. It was a promising sign that perhaps Marik would be up and running a little sooner than expected, and he couldn't help but groan at the prospect. He ran a hand through his hair and looked down longingly at Marik. He hoped to give the boy something to remember, and so he slid down his own trousers and kicked them to one side, revealing his own – fully erect – member to the Egyptian beneath him. He caught sight of the look of horror on Marik's face and laughed aloud.

"Don't worry," Bakura said, rubbing with his hand for emphasis, "this isn't that big compared to some of the monsters I've seen, but it won't bother you much. This isn't going inside of you anyway."

Bakura traced a long finger up his length teasingly and then slipped it firmly across his leaking tip, causing him to draw in a pleasured and hissed breath. His heart was beating quickly in his chest, his body felt extremely hot – more so even than wearing leather in bloody Egypt – and he wanted nothing more than to feel Marik inside him. He wanted to touch Marik, but he also knew he had to prepare . . .

It was time to get ready. Bakura reached underneath the sofa for a bottle of heated lubricant that he had hidden there a week ago, it worried him that Marik hadn't found it yet – especially as the sofa folded out into a bed – but he was just grateful the tube remained in place. He squeezed a substantial amount onto his palm, and then reached up with one hand to tease his own nipple as he smiled down at Marik, who was now half-erect and starting to breathe heavily again. His other hand reached behind himself to his hole, which he teased with his fingertip.

"Do I have your permission to do _this_, Marik?"

"Huh? Oh! Y-yeah . . ." Marik said, nervously reaching out to touch Bakura's penis out of curiosity. "If I have permission to touch this?"

"You're seriously asking that? _Fuck_! Yeah, touch it . . ."

Marik's hand wrapped around him with such skill that it was beyond comprehension how someone so inexperienced could do something so talented, but – then again – with the same genitalia he must surely have had practise. It made slipping in his first digit all the easier as he was certainly relaxed enough to make it effortless. It was granted a little difficult, Ryou's body was a virgin too, but Bakura knew well enough what to do and what was needed.

He let Marik play with his penis, the hand moving expertly as he varied in techniques and speed, leading Bakura to draw in deep and jagged breaths to maintain self-control. Bakura's finger, meanwhile, pressed against his hole and gently slid inside, moving against the natural contours of his body so as to make the penetration easier, and as he moved Marik continued his ministrations . . . pleasure coursed through him . . . the pleasure making the digit almost seep inside with great ease as his walls contracted around him. If he were lucky – if this became a regular event – then perhaps he could convince Marik to prepare him next time. The little blond's eyes were fixated on what he was doing, almost as if desperate to get a good view . . .

Bakura gazed down with half-lidded eyes and a devilish smile. Marik was sitting up on his right elbow, gazing intently at Bakura's actions as he distractedly tried to work the penis in front of him, and all the while he blushed a violent red and swallowed nervously as if he couldn't believe what he was doing. Bakura noticed that the blond's erection was very nearly erect again, and it had barely been ten minutes . . . seemed that Marik worked very fast indeed.

"Go slow," Bakura hissed. "I still have a way to prepare, you still have to get it fully up, and – frankly – I don't want to come early like you."

He should have known when the boy pouted that he would do something stupid . . .

Marik _did _slow down, but he also waited. He waited for Bakura to slide in a second finger, waited for him to pull a face of mild discomfort, and then squeezed a little too much on his penis. Bakura growled loudly in mild pain and felt his walls clench tightly around his fingers, his other hand clawed down his chest in a desperate attempt at trying to distract himself from the abrupt spark of pain that Marik caused. What frightened him most was the smirk on Marik's face and the fact he was now fully erect, almost as if he _enjoyed _seeing Bakura in pain.

"Don't insult the guy who has your cock in his hands," Marik snapped. "Jerk."

"Next time _you _bottom . . ."

Bakura awkwardly slid in a third finger and hissed loudly at the sudden feeling of slight pain, nothing too extreme, but just enough that it caused him to feel very uncomfortable and a slight stinging sensation. He always hated the way his inner walls felt around his fingers, but Marik's resuming of a hand-job distracted him just enough to feel some pleasure from it.

The silver-haired thief reached down with his free hand and took a hold of the natural blond's length, working it firmly and expertly so as to coat it thoroughly with the lubrication. He worked his fingers inside his body as he slowly prepared Marik. It didn't take long for him to find that special spot within his body that had him arching his back in ecstasy, causing a hot sweat to break over his skin as he bared his neck and all but screamed. He removed his fingers hastily and let go of Marik's penis. It was hard to maintain balance, and so he threw his hands on either side of Marik's head and bent down to press his lips lightly on his partner's.

"I need you to guide it in," Bakura whispered. "Put it in me."

Bakura surprised Marik by kissing him on the lips. It was such an intimate gesture – more so than the act of sex itself – and so the blond Egyptian felt a thrill through him unlike any he had so far felt. He relished in how those full lips felt against him, how the hot tongue tasted as it explored his mouth, how he could taste faintly cinnamon and honey and enjoyed how aggressive Bakura was being. It was as if Bakura was losing all control, his hands clawing on Marik's shoulders, and Marik was almost losing himself in the kiss, almost forgetting the job ahead of him . . .

"W-wait," Marik gasped, pulling away from the kiss, "I can't put it in. Aren't I supposed to put a condom on?"

"For fuck's sake, Marik. You're a virgin, what diseases would you have? I don't mind a little mess, I'm clean, and I'm planning on being exclusive . . . as loath as I am to admit it . . . why are we even _having _this conversation? Fuck me, damn it!"

"You're such a bitch today!"

Bakura was sitting astride Marik, which made guiding it in rather difficult . . . blond eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he lifted one leg up and reached down to take a hold of his length. He aimed it upwards and struggled a little to get it inside, but Bakura rolled his eyes and simply sat down on him . . . taking him to the hilt in one go. Marik hadn't expected that . . . he hadn't expected it at all . . .

The sudden sensation was amazing! It was far better than his hand had ever felt, something so moist and warm, so hot and enveloping, and Bakura's muscles seemed to instinctively clench around him, moving in an erratic rhythm as they squeezed him tightly for all he was worth. Marik couldn't breathe! His heart was racing so quickly in his chest that it was all he could hear, and Bakura was looking down at him with such a devilish smile that it made him weak. He was sweaty, he was unable to focus his eyes, and all he could feel was the heat and the ecstasy.

Bakura seemed to be waiting to adjust to the sudden girth. He arched his back and fidgeted a little to accommodate the size within him, all whilst looking down at Marik with pupils dilated and lips plump and swollen. The blush on his cheeks, the dangerous look to his eyes, the sweat breaking on his forehead . . . he was so handsome, so beautiful! His hands were resting on Marik's chest now, playing with his nipples, his tongue coming out to lick his lips . . .

Then he moved.

Marik let out a low groan and shot his hands out to Bakura's waist, clutching hard upon his sides in a desperate need to hold _something_. There was a small part of his brain that told him that Bakura needed pleasure too, but he was so overthrown with sensation he couldn't concentrate enough to reciprocate . . . it seemed that Bakura was searching for that spot inside him, and so he rode up and down in a very hard – very s_teady _– rhythm. It felt so good! Bakura's hands were clawing him, drawing dark red marks down his chest as he cried out vocally – _oh so vocally _– in the heat of the moment. It was so erotic. He wanted more.

"Try to move your hips with me," Bakura snapped. He cried out and threw back his head as Marik violently struck his prostate. "Perfect. Now touch me. I want you to touch me. Make me come . . . _before_ you do. You got yours, now I want mine."

The blond didn't argue this time. He couldn't. He couldn't think about anything other than how good it currently felt, and he wanted Bakura to feel that too . . . he gripped Bakura's length in his hand and tried his best to work up a rhythm to match what their bodies were doing. It seemed to be doing the trick, and soon Bakura was touching his own nipples in a wonderful show for Marik and reaching behind them to play with Marik's balls as they moved in time with one enough. It was too good to last, and soon Marik knew he would explode . . .

Bakura suddenly screamed aloud, causing Marik's neighbour below to bang hard upon the ceiling and curse him loudly, the sound of slapping skin and sweat barely doing anything to hide his neighbour's frustrations. Bakura returned to scratching at him, clawing at him like an animal, pounding up and down in a crazed heat, causing Marik to bite his lip and try to hold back his release.

It was then that Bakura let out a genuine scream and came.

Marik felt the silver-haired spirit pulse in his hand, then the heat of his seed as it landed across his stomach. Bakura's face was a picture of nirvana, something so pure and free from taint that it was impossible to believe that it was the same spirit, and yet he was so beautifully erotic that Marik couldn't steal his eyes away. He could feel those walls tighten around him, clamping down so intensely that the pleasure was almost akin to pain, the two sensations becoming all but one.

The blond Egyptian came hard inside Bakura, all senses lost as he was flooded with rapture, and he couldn't help but shudder and shake all over, his body rocking in a way that he never had before. He couldn't breathe. The pleasure stole his breath away. It was all too good! He hadn't felt anything like this before, and he wanted more, he wanted it to never end . . .

He was still coming down off his high when Bakura pulled away from him with a sickeningly wet sound, before collapsing down by his side. He draped an arm over Marik's wet abdomen and smiled so innocently that Marik was sure he would never see such a smile ever again . . . he looked so perfect!

"Did -?" Marik reached down to move a lock of Bakura's hair from his sweat-slicked skin. "Did I do well . . .?"

The thief seemed to nuzzle against him, an innocent and beautiful smile spreading across his lips as he relished in the feelings. Bakura murmured incoherently something soft and gentle. Marik wasn't sure what he said, but he knew that – for once – it was something kind and appreciative, and Marik could only continue to play with the thief's hair . . . stroking lightly and rhythmically, enjoying the feel of those soft locks through his fingers and the intimacy of the situation.

It was such a perfect moment that he didn't even notice the subtle change in Bakura's expression. He didn't notice the abrupt jolting of the eyes that opened wide, or the sudden paleness on those flushed cheeks, or even the canine tooth that came down to bite hard upon a lip. He _did _notice though the tightening grip on his waist and the body pressing against him a little more firmly, but he put it down to a romantic desire to become closer . . . to become one. He kissed Bakura's head gently and breathed in deeply, taking in that rich and unique aroma that belonged only to Bakura, enjoying the smell of sex that hung in the air.

"I'll take your silence as an uncontested confirmation of my skills," Marik softly said, stroking Bakura's cheek with his hand.

"W-where am I?"

"Huh? Not this again! This is the _worst _time for your jokes, Ba-"

Marik stopped. He thought back to Bakura's supposedly empty threat. He cursed himself for having trusted and fallen in love with what amounted to nothing but a vengeful spirit. He furrowed his eyebrows together and let a low rolling growl fester in his throat, threatening to overflow into an all out scream, and as he clenched his fists he tried to remind himself that Ryou was innocent in all of this . . .

"I fucking hate him!" He cried out, sitting abruptly up so that Ryou was forced off from him. "How do you put up with him? I thought he would at least stick around instead of pushing you onto me like this!"

Ryou flinched visibly and curled in on himself into a tight ball. He seemed desperate to hide his genitals from view, so that the blond Egyptian actually felt a little guilt at the whole situation . . . there was no knowing how clued in the white-haired boy was, and no doubt he was extremely sore and very embarrassed. The poor boy was visibly shaking and started to cry just a bit, and frankly if Bakura didn't come out to fix things soon then Marik was never going to forgive him. He didn't want to spend the morning after his first-time fixing breakfast for a virtual _stranger_!

What annoyed Marik most was that he couldn't bring himself to _hate _Bakura. He knew the spirit was a giant sadistic freak, and he also knew that Bakura would inevitably pull a stunt like this, but he also knew that Bakura would keep his word and genuinely cared for him. He probably could have done a _lot _better than Bakura, but at the same time . . . no one else had ever made him feel that good.

"Fine, you know what," Marik snapped, realising he was probably talking to himself at this point, "tell Bakura that he may have been a good lay, but I have _no _problems dating _you _instead. Ha! Next time _I'll _show him!"

Marik sighed and stood up shakily on his feet. He figured that clothing might make Ryou feel less embarrassed and afraid, but the clothing Bakura had been wearing was probably Bakura's choosing, nothing that Ryou would have picked for himself . . . he wondered if that knowledge would just make Ryou feel worse. Then again, how _could _he feel worse? Marik was so pissed that he was verging on the brink of one of his headaches, and Ryou was probably traumatised enough for a hundred lifetimes.

"Do you think he knows that I hate him as much as I love him?"

Ryou flinched and remained silent.

"The sad thing is that I _do _love him," Marik said with a blush. "I love him, which I guess means I love you as well, because you're a part of him . . . but I hate him! He's a sadistic jerk who deserves to rot in hell! I hate _myself _for loving _him_!" The blond sighed and then smiled, jokingly he said: "Hey, you care for a round two, Ryou?"

He hadn't even time to say 'just joking' when Ryou visibly let out a loud cry and buried his head into his knees. Marik visibly sagged his shoulders in defeat, his head falling dramatically as he tried his best not to shout or scream at Ryou, because he knew that this wasn't Ryou's fault, it was Bakura's . . . still, it was painful to see Ryou looking so shy and afraid, especially when Marik _finally _had a taste of sex and was rather interested in having another go . . . he blushed and shook his head. He couldn't think about that kind of thing . . .

"So, that's a no to the round two then, huh?"

Marik sighed as Ryou shook his head over and over . . .

"Thanks, Bakura, _thanks_," he spat. "Just remember you can't hide forever! Stupid spirit . . . "


End file.
